Sooner or Later
by twinkinu
Summary: In which Ford wishes he had made up with Stan a little sooner, and Stan wishes Ford had found him on the floor a little later. / Semi-AU where Ford waits a few weeks to ask Stan to accompany him to the Arctic Ocean. tw: suicide attempt


It was just a normal-ass morning at first; that should have been Ford's first sign that something was wrong.

The scientist wandered out of his bedroom with tired eyes and a lazy smile; it had been nearly a month since he had erased Bill Cipher from existence once and for all, but it was still so unfamiliar to him to be able to sleep without the triangle's harassment. His unruly charcoal-colored hair was pointing in every direction and he ran his polydactyl hands through it in a hopeless attempt to smooth the ornery fluffs as he headed to the kitchen. Once he arrived, he put on a pot of coffee and leaned against the counter, glancing up at the clock as he waited for the java to brew.

He'd been mulling over his request ever since Stan got his memories back, and he nearly asked it at the niblings' birthday party, but he had decided that it would be best to keep the attention on the new teenagers during their special day. Then, as he was left to his thoughts more and more, the request became complicated, something that he worried over ceaselessly as his overactive mind invented an endless list of possible ways for Stanley to react. He decided it would be best to wait until the town was more settled and everyone was back to normal (or, abnormal, as he knew was the case in this town). Then, he decided it would be best to wait until the Shack was rebuilt—surely, Stan would be more open to receiving his twin's request once he felt secure in his own home.

Thanks to the ever-grateful townsfolk of Gravity Falls, the old house was perfectly back in working order and had been for several days now. Ford still waited, though he wasn't sure why anymore. Nerves? Uncertainty? He had no way of knowing how Stanley would respond, after all. He wouldn't hold it against the younger twin to refuse after everything that the elder had done; who would want to be stuck on a boat with the man who turned his back on you, leaving you to grueling homelessness and only contacting you after ten years to ask you to get as far away from him as possible? Who would want to sail the world with the man whom you spent thirty years trying to rescue, the man who treated you like absolute _garbage_ after you dedicated the better half of your life to saving him?

But Stanford's anxiety was easily being drowned out by his impatience and desire to officiate the mended relationship he had with his brother. Especially since yesterday; he had told Stan he was spending the day off investigating some anomalous activity in other areas of the state, but in actuality, he had set out to secure the boat he'd bought, to embellish the name _Stan O' War II_ proudly on its side. Since then, he'd been as anxious as ever to finally start their journey, two brothers taking on the Arctic Ocean with nothing but each other and the cold, briny vastness of the sea.

Now, as Ford was looking at the clock, thoughts lingering on the image of the trawler sitting at the dock in wait to begin the brothers' adventure, he found himself unable to wait any longer.

It was only six in the morning, meaning that Stan was likely still asleep, but it wouldn't hurt to wake him a bit earlier than his usual rousing hour to make his request. It was a simple request, but one that meant the world to Stanford, and one that he was fairly sure would mean the world to Stanley, as well.

And he couldn't wait any longer. So he ascended the steps, eager to find his brother and wake him with the news of the adventure he had planned. He expected that Stan would still be in bed, snoring loud enough to shake the room, hopefully at least wearing his boxers.

What he didn't expect was for Stan to be awake.

What he didn't expect was for him to be holding a gun.

What he didn't expect was for him to be pointing that gun to his own head.

* * *

Stan had been mulling over the idea of his suicide ever since he got his memories back, and he nearly went through with it right after the niblings' birthday party, but he had decided that he would rather give them a real goodbye, that it would be best for him to let them be carefree and happy until they returned to Piedmont. Then, as he was left to his thoughts more and more, the idea got more complicated. It turned into something that he worried over constantly as his stupid mind came up with an endless list of possible ways for Stanford to react. He decided it would be best to wait until the town was more settled and everyone was back to normal (well, as normal as this place could get). Then, he decided it would be best to wait until the Shack was totally repaired—Ford would at least want a stable roof over his head before he had to worry about shit like what to do with this body that's only slightly less useless now that it's not alive.

At least Stan had already faked his death, leaving Ford the only brother still legally living. That would make things easier.

Thanks to the helpful people of Gravity Falls, the old house was already back to its former state of sorta-structural-stability and had been for a few days. But Stan still waited, though he wasn't sure why anymore. Nerves? Uncertainty? He had no way of knowing how Stanford would respond, after all; though he would be shocked if the older twin cared about much more than how to get the blood stains off his newly-repaired wood floors; after all, who would want to be stuck in a house with the man who uselessly followed you around and rode on your coattails his whole life, ruining your whole life once by breaking a project, then _again_ by pushing you into a world of nightmares? Who would want to live with the man that stole your identity and your house just to get you back, the man who was so stupid and useless on his own that he couldn't even save you for thirty long years?

Things had been better since the whole apocalypse thing, yeah. They didn't argue constantly anymore, and Ford made coffee for the both of them each morning. He even started a little bit of small talk with Stan once in a blue moon. But things were never going to be the same as it was when they were kids. Ford still flinched away whenever Stan laid a hand on him. He still spent ninety percent of his time in the basement or out in the woods or, most recently, even in a different city. He still made that face like he smelled something real bad whenever he was reminded of the Mystery Shack's existence.

Stan made up a lot of reasons for why the Shack was temporarily closed, a poorly-made sign hanging from the door that boasted 'mysteries inside too phenomenal for human eyes! we'll be back soon—bigger, weirder, more expensive than before!' He said he needed some time to make sure his memory was still solid before he resumed business. He said he was working on a new attraction that would knock everyone's socks off once it was done. He said he didn't want any tourists finding their way into town until at least another month after all the craziness of Weirdmaggeddon had subsided. He said there were still a few things just not working quite right since reconstruction and he wanted to make sure there were no opportunities for lawsuits before he opened up.

But actually, he just couldn't stand the way Ford acted when it was open. He couldn't handle his brother referring to the only successful business he'd ever held as 'nonsense,' 'a disgrace to my studies,' 'nothing but a way to take advantage of people who need to be educated.' The Mystery Shack was the only accomplishment Stan ever had besides getting his brother back, and it was therefore the only accomplishment he had that didn't turn around and literally punch him in the face. But Ford hated it, so he closed it. He couldn't run a business when it would be nothing to Stanford but a source of ignominy.

Really, his whole _life,_ his very _existence_ was nothing to Stanford but a source of ignominy.

About a week ago, Stanley had decided today would be the day. He'd marked it on his calendar: September 30. He would trek out to the forest after having breakfast with his brother one last time, then he would shoot himself in the middle of the woods and leave his body to the pines so that Ford would have one less thing to worry about.

But he'd been lying in his bed all night, unable to sleep as he was plagued with his usual thoughts and ideations, and he couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't look Ford in the eye anymore. He couldn't live long enough to follow through with his whole plan.

He couldn't wait for breakfast.

This way, Ford would hear the gunshot and find Stan's body, and that _sucked_ and Stan didn't want to think about it, but luckily, he wouldn't have to think about it for long.

It was only six in the morning, so Ford was probably still asleep. Although, it wasn't too rare for him to find himself up and around earlier than his usual waking hour of seven-thirty, and the possibility of him already being awake was actually pretty likely… In those cases, though, he was always quick to retire to the basement until Stan got up (usually around nine). That would actually be better, because in the lab there was less of a chance that he would hear the gunshot.

Yeah, that would be better.

His eyes wandered from the clock to the calendar, where the date was circled in thick, red marker. He was going to do it today. And this time, he wasn't going to back out. Because this time, he had nothing tying him to the earth.

He almost did it when he was fourteen, but he couldn't go before he could find a way to impress his father.

He almost did it when he was eighteen, but he had to make something of himself, to get rich, to prove that he could be someone on his own.

He almost did it when he was twenty-four, but he was so drunk that all the pills came right back up before they ever had a chance to kill him.

He almost did it when he was twenty-seven, forty-three, fifty-eight, but he had to get his brother back. He couldn't rest until he got his brother back.

He almost did it the night he got his brother back. His life accomplishment had been completed, he had nothing more to do in this world, and to top it all off, Ford hated him more than ever. But he had the kids.

Now, the kids were in Piedmont, with their parents, and he didn't have them around as a reminder of everything that was good in life. All he had was Stanford.

And he couldn't wait any longer. So he rolled out of bed, slid his arm under the mattress to retrieve the handgun he'd kept there for years, and closed his eyes as he held the pistol to his temple. He took a deep breath, his back to the closed bedroom door, and steeled himself for the impact. He expected to pull the trigger, to hear a deafening blast, then to hear _nothing._

What he didn't expect was to hear his bedroom door creak open.

What he didn't expect was to hear a small gasp, a hitched breath.

What he didn't expect was to hear his brother's barely-audible, overly-cautious voice drift into the room, wavering uncharacteristically from the usually confident, even tone it held.

"Stanley?"

* * *

Ford felt all the air escape his lungs. His voice quaked as he called out to his twin.

"Stanley?"

He tried to analyze the situation, but his mind had come to a screeching halt. All that he could focus on was the gun in his brother's hands, threatening to take away Ford's other half, to rip away the piece of him that he had only just gotten back.

He was horrified.

When he uttered Stan's name, he saw every muscle in the conman's body become dangerously tense, and he panicked as he realized that the absolute most important thing that he could do right now would be to get rid of the weapon. If he asked too many questions, if he showed his panic, if he made Stan feel any pressure at all, it could result in him pulling the trigger.

Making his voice as level and calm as possible (which was, admittedly, neither level nor calm; the author could still only manage anxiety-riddled speech), he implored, "Stanley, put the gun down."

Stan sighed shakily and obliged without question, dropping his arm to his side and letting the pistol fall to the floor with a loud _clunk._ After several moments of silence filled only by each brother's ragged breaths, Ford opened his mouth to speak again. He was a social cripple and had no idea how to talk to his brother _ever,_ much less after finding him moments from blowing out his own brains, but he had to say _something,_ to ask Stan to turn around, to look at him, to step closer, to talk to him, _anything,_ but he was interrupted by Stan's abrupt, gravelly voice.

"Didja sleep good?"

Ford may have had no idea how to handle social situations of this nature, but he was pretty sure he had the right to be annoyed that Stan was asking such a casual question in such an emotionless voice, that he was blatantly sidestepping the elephant in the room and trying to make small talk as if there hadn't been a gun in his hand mere seconds ago. But he decided to play along, hoping that he could coax some sort of explanation out of his brother if he let him lead the conversation. "Fine," he answered, taking a small step forward. "And yourself?"

"Never slept," Stan grunted. He was still tense, and he made no move to turn around. "How long ya been up?"

"Half an hour."

That roused some movement from the younger twin, who slumped forward in disappointment, every muscle letting go but for his fists, which clenched tighter. "Fuck," he sighed, cursing himself for stalling his suicide. "Knew I should'nt've waited so long."

" _What?!"_ Ford couldn't stop his exclamation.

"If I could've gotten my shit together just ten minutes earlier… If ya could've waited just a few minutes before ya came up here-"

"Then you would have been _dead!"_ Ford jumped forward, not able to hold himself in line any longer. He grabbed Stan's shoulder to spin him around. "Is that what you-"

He suddenly lost his voice when his brother turned to face him, revealing a face stained with rivers of tears, misty strawberry-colored eyes sunken over deep, grey-blue bags. His nose was red and swollen and his lips were chapped and bleeding.

It was the face of a man who was broken. A man who was finished being alive. A man who'd given up long ago.

Stan's voice had been so flat, so emotionless when he was speaking… Ford never realized that he had been in this much _pain._

Oh, Moses—how _long_ had he been in this much pain?

"Stanley… Stanley, are you okay?"

"Go back downstairs, Poindexter." His voice was wavering now, breaking in parts where it had been so strong before. It was brittle and thin, his composure close to cracking as he avoiding looking his brother in the eye.

"No, Stan. Not until you tell me what's going on."

"I-" The younger twin took a step back, eyes shut tight as if closing them forcefully enough would make him disappear. "Don't make me do this, Sixer. Don't make me keep goin'."

Ford just stared at his brother, as loss for words. He looked so weak, so vulnerable as he stood there, desperately closing his eyes like he wanted them to never open again. "Stanley, what are you talking about?"

"I ain't never been good for a damn thing. Only thing I ever accomplished in my whole life was bringin' ya back, but apparently _that_ was a huge fuckup, too. I've been ready to die for _forty years,_ Ford. When I thought my mind was gettin' wiped, it was too fuckin' easy. I was gonna get to go away without ever hurtin' nobody. But my dumb ass can't even get my memories erased right!"

"Stan-"

"I've done all I can. I've sowed my oats or whatever. I brought ya back, I saved the world, and everything's fine now. The kids're safe, you've got your house back… What else d'ya need me for?" He was crying now, wiping his eyes frustratedly and turning back around to hide from his brother. "What else is there for me to do?"

"Sail away with me," Ford whispered, his breath a ghost over dry lips. He could only hope that Stan would listen to him. "Fight sea monsters with me. Explore the ocean with me, Stanley. You can't leave me until we've traveled the world together-"

"Stop it!" Stan hissed. "You're- You just feel sorry for me. You're guilty or somethin'. I knew you'd do this, that's why ya shoulda just stayed downstairs a little longer. Then you'd be done with me. Ya wouldn't have to play nice with me anymore." He fell to his knees, gripping his sides as he began to shake. "Forty years, Sixer. I've been waiting forty fuckin' years to finally die. I've always had somethin' keepin' me here, but I'm finally done. Bill's dead. The kids're safe. You're _home."_

Ford knelt to his brother's level. " _You're_ my home," he insisted, putting a hand on Stan's back. "Please sail away with me. It's what we've always wanted."

A sob escaped the younger twin. He was breaking down; the gates were opening, and it was hopeless to try to close them. "It's what _I've_ always wanted. Ya never needed me. I'm just a burden. I'm just an embarrassment. An _idiot,_ a _loser,_ a _waste of space,_ I- I just wanna die, Stanford." His shoulders were shaking with sobs as he curled into himself, desperately taking in sips of air between his cries. "Just give me this. If ya ever give me anything, just- just let me die… I just wanna die…"

Ford's heart was shattered; the broken pieces were like shards of glass falling through his ribcage, littering his organs and bones, leaving him aching.

He couldn't speak.

His eyes welled with tears as he held his brother's shoulder, hands beginning to shake. Finally, he managed to choke out a word:

"Lee…"

Stan turned to look at him, lips parted in mild surprise. He hadn't heard that nickname in… Moses, how many years? He met Ford's gaze and the look in his eyes was… longing. It was honest. It was _sad._

"Sixer? What're ya cryin' for?"

Ford coughed out a humorless laugh and wiped his eyes on his sweater sleeve. "My best friend is asking me to let him commit suicide. I didn't buy a boat just to have my first mate leave me before we ever set sail."

Stan frowned, cocking his head to the side. "Ya… Ya bought a boat?"

"Yes, Stanley, that's why I came up here in the first place! I… Well, I've been picking up on some weird activity lately in the Arctic Ocean, and I'd like to investigate it. But I'm getting too old to do these things on my own, and, well… I need someone out there to help me out." He pulled an old, yellowed photograph from his pocket and help it out to his brother with a small smile. "Who better to accompany me than my better half?"

Stan looked away from the photograph. It hurt too much to see the old memories, back when everything was good and happy and _brothers._ Every part of him was rejecting the idea of Ford wanting to sail with him, to adventure just like they always used to. "You're makin' this up just to get me to stay," he accused. "Don't do that to yourself."

"I'm not making this up! I've been meaning to ask you since the kids' party, but I waited. It's my fault for waiting so long, Lee. I could have prevented all of this." The author pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, eyes shut tight in attempt to stop the tears from flowing. "Stan, I've always needed you. I always _will_ need you. You're the most important person in the multiverse, Stanley. _Please_ understand that. I've made mistakes in the past, horrible mistakes that ruined our relationship, but I want to fix it. I've always wanted to go sailing, but it won't be the same without you."

Stan stared at his brother with wide eyes, at loss for words.

Ford wasn't lying.

He bought a boat.

"Sixer, you're fuckin' crazy."

The older twin looked up, opening his watery eyes and expecting the worst. He hadn't gotten through to Stan. "Lee?"

Stan shook his head and tackled his brother in a hug, pulling him close and burying his head into his shoulder. "You're fuckin' crazy if ya think _you're_ gonna be captain and _I'm_ gonna be first mate."

Ford grinned, relieved, and held his little brother close. "I love you, Lee. Please don't leave me alone."

"You're such a sap," Stan chuckled, pulling back so he could look Ford in the eye. "I love you too, ya nerd. You're, uh… You're sure ya wanna lock yourself up with me in the middle of the Arctic?"

"I want nothing more."

"And ya think there'll be buried treasure? And babes?"

The author chuckled. "I'd say there's a high probability." He punched his twin playfully in the shoulder, then held up a hesitant hand. "High six?"

Stan beamed, accepting the gesture proudly. "High six."


End file.
